Conqueror
by Khannot
Summary: Jericho Swain has conquered all opposition to claim the position of Grand General. But the greatest threat lies not without, but within. And in a fallen world torn by strife and conflict, no one is truly invincible.
1. Chapter 1

The room was vast, regal and magnificent. Carved right out of the rock in the heart of the mountain, it had the aura of the stone from which it had come: Solid, unyielding, unbreakable. If Noxus was the embodiment of strength on the continent, then this room was the heart of Noxus. And never more so than today, for today all of Noxus's leaders, the strongest of the strong, were gathered here.

And at the far end, standing atop a high, massive stage, was the mightiest of them all.

_If only that were true_, the officer thought. And many in the crowd would have agreed. For the figure that stood on the stage looked woefully out of place—short and lightly built, balding, with hair that was a dark yet pale grey, and clutching a cane in his right hand, he was singularly unimpressive. An eyesore, it could be said, a blot on the greatness and majesty of the chamber.

The figure turned, and his eyes, red and black like burning coals, swept the audience. Earlier contempt dissipated instantly. Those eyes, the only thing left exposed by the simple cloth mask, were utterly and absolutely terrifying, as was the massive six-eyed raven perched on his shoulder, also surveying the audience. Together, the two quickly made one wonder if looks could kill. It was just too bad the rest of the figure was nowhere near as impressive.

The newly crowned Grand General of Noxus eyed his people and remembered that he was supposed to say something.

"The world has changed…"

_No kidding, _the officer thought, _Five years ago no man like that would possibly be standing there. He's hardly even a man._

"We live in an era where the power of the sword and the rifle has lost its supremacy, where strength at arms is now not a reason for glory but something to be hidden and concealed. We live in a world defined no longer by actions but by words. And most disturbingly, this new world seems determined to see our downfall.

Our enemies are everywhere. And now they are stronger and more united than ever, and they have weapons against which we have never had to fight before. It is ironic that in this period of peace Noxus is more at risk than it has ever been in war."

_Yada, Yada, Yadah, _the officer fought the urge to sigh. _What on earth is this scarecrow trying to say?_

The general began to pace, his voice ringing out across the chamber and, fortunately, sounding stronger than one might expect from such an unimpressive figure.

"But we can rise above this. We can beat our enemies at their own games. And even this time of intrigues and hidden dangers we can use to our advantage."

_I sure hope so._

"But I must warn you all that change is coming and will continue to come. We will survive only if we change ourselves, and adapt to suit our circumstances. But I assure you of one thing, of that which matters most: whatever comes, even if the sky falls and earth breaks and the sea engulfs the land, we _will_ survive, and remain, and endure; a people without weakness, a people without fear. Forever free, forever mighty, forever strong!"

And the general slammed his clenched fist against his chest in a classic Noxian salute.

"Forever strong!" the crowd echoed, returning the salute.

The general nodded at the crowd, then raised his arm, palm open in a welcoming gesture. "Let the celebrations begin!" he proclaimed.

His speech done, the general limped down from the stage. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he turned and gazed up at it, thinking of all the many times he'd stood on it. His free hand, the one not resigned to holding his cane, fingered at the many medals that adorned his chest, not too few of which had been awarded here, on this very stage. Still watching the stage, the officer briefly recalled the missions, battles and campaigns that had brought the general those medals.

The Ironspike Mountains—his first posting and the one he'd first distinguished himself in. His contribution had been mainly to make suggestions to a commanding officer who probably hadn't needed them, and to fight one particularly nasty battle against an enemy force that had been pretty suicidal anyway, even if their concept of suicide had entailed causing an avalanche, setting an ambush, and taking half a Noxian company with them. Even so, his superiors had been impressed—impressed enough to give him an actual field command of his own.

That had been during the Barbarian Pacification Campaign in Freljord, of course, where, he'd quickly found himself cut off from the main Noxian force. He'd led his troops back to safety, and, oddly enough, managed to strike a pretty big blow against the enemy along the way. Needless to say, his superiors had been impressed again, even though the officer had always felt that he'd simply been in the right place at the right time with the right troops, and a seventy percent casualty rate was nothing to be proud of.

And then there had been the last war with Demacia, assuming one didn't count the Kalamanda Incident as a war. A string of battles fought back and forth between the two city-states over a three-year period—Kaladoun, the Howling Marshes, Morgron Pass, the Serpentine River, Fort Selsey and Fort Dempsey and Nashor Hill. There were many more, of course, more than the officer cared to count. But he remembered the major ones, the ones which had propelled the general to his current position and left his tunic gleaming with honours.

But how much were the honours worth, really? Did medals mean much when you were decorated after every battle you fought, or were they just part and parcel of fighting those battles? More importantly, did you really deserve them if you'd won the majority of those battles by luck?

People said this general was a genius, a master tactician and strategist, a powerful mage and a good leader. His soldiers, it was known, trusted in him with total conviction. They would follow him anywhere. On several occasions, higher-ranking officers had requested transfer to his unit even at the expense of demotions. He was, in all ways except appearance, a hero. And perhaps, just perhaps, the officer mused, that appearance was more truthful than appearance tends to be. Because in spite of the successes, the achievements, the triumphs against the odds and the fact that he'd never been defeated in battle, the fact remained that the general had been lucky, extremely lucky. Perhaps not in the sense that the odds were always in his favour, but certainly in the sense that somehow, things always seemed to work out for him. If he gambled, he either won or managed to salvage the situation when he lost. He had done things that should never have worked but had.

So was it genius or power or mere good fortune that had led to those victories? Who knew? But the officer decided that he would not be surprised if he found out that the general was overrated. And indeed, that in itself was a worrying thought for anyone concerned with the future of Noxus.

With a sigh, the officer began to head for the small doors behind the stage. As he walked, a fact crossed his mind, realistically frivolous but important as a matter of protocol.

It wasn't "officer" anymore. It was "Grand General" now.

**Author's Note: **

**So, let me know if you get the twist at the end. (Hint: A general is technically an officer, but is not normally referred to as such.)**

**I also know that Swain was supposed to have a helmet and staff at his coronation, but I'm taking some creative liberties, I suppose. **


	2. Chapter 2

One of the benefits of being part of High Command, Swain decided, was the good food. In a way, it made all the politicking, battles, hard decisions and assassination attempts worth it. Of course, having been born into a poor peasant family, he would never have been able to eat any of the delicacies on the table before him had he not joined the Noxian Officer Corps, which was itself a small miracle given that cripples hardly had a reputation as good soldiers. It was depressing, he thought, how a suitably cynical observer could argue that he'd started his career by luck and succeeded by luck. Still, he supposed he could, if necessary, make a pretty decent case for his rise to power being attributable to his own natural abilities as a thinker, leader and spell caster.

All he'd have to do would be to point out his long list of achievements and the conditions under which he'd had them—usually outnumbered, frequently outgunned, on various occasions low on supplies, exhausted, hungry, thirsty cold, isolated, or all of the above. His detractors could say whatever they wanted, but ultimately, Noxus was a nation that valued results, and Swain's track record said it all.

The only problem, he mused in between mouthfuls of pan-seared foie gras, was that he had trouble convincing himself of that.

"Grand General?" A low, gruff voice interrupted his reverie. Swain looked up into the cold blue eyes of General Konstantin Karkov Rokossovsky.

"General Rokossovsky," he said politely, allowing a slight smile to show. The general was another member of High Command, a veteran of the last rune war and one of Boram Darkwill's old guard. A soldier to the core, he'd worked his way up from the position of private, generally avoided politics, and had a reputation for his direct, straightforward personality.

"Congratulations on your promotion, sir," Rokossovsky said, removing his hat and offering a hand. Swain shook it, holding back a wince as his knuckles and fingers were crushed by the general's iron grip.

"Thank you," he replied, measuring his tone so that it would convey just the right amount of politeness. He searched for something else to add, something that would be just nice enough to win the general's favour without sounding soft or patronizing. Rokossovsky was an excellent general, but he was also a bit of a traditionalist, and suspicious of shrewd politicians. Swain didn't want to risk alienating him.

"I look forward to working with you," Swain said at last, retrieving his hand and resisting the urge to flex his fingers. He finished the plate of foie gras, relishing the way the fattened goose liver seemed to melt in his mouth, and was just reaching for a serving of escargot when the next well-wisher stepped forward.

It was customary for prominent Noxian citizens to pay their respects at the Grand General's table during his coronation feast. When an aide had first informed him of this, Swain had thought it a little meaningless, seeing as the congratulations were often insincere and many of the well-wishers would have probably loved to kill him. The upside, however, was that it was a pretty decent way for the new Grand General to gauge quickly who his potential allies and enemies were.

To his surprise, Swain found the first few visitors quite encouraging. They were all members of the High Command's old guard, Rokossovsky's peers, and while they were suspicious of Swain's occasionally unorthodox methods and un-soldierly appearance, they respected his track record and seemed quite okay with him being in power. Then again, he'd never had much trouble with any of them. The difficulty would lie with the younger generation, like Keiran Darkwill, who was fortunately deceased, or—

"Congratulations, Grand General."

It was amazing how those three words could be made to sound like an insult. But of course, it would have been churlish to take the bait, at least in the way that was expected.

"Why, thank you, Katarina," Swain responded casually, again allowing a light, pleasant smile to creep onto his features. That, he knew, would annoy her more than any comeback insult could. "I was wondering when you would turn up."

The black-clad assassin paused, taken aback by the calm, pseudo-cordial response and at a loss for words, but unwilling to back down. Swain looked past her, nodding at the man who stood at her shoulder, his features hidden by a dark black cloak and a blade strapped to a vambrace on his right arm.

"Talon," he said by way of greeting. The man nodded back. Unlike Katarina, he had no personal dislike of Swain. The two of them had worked together previously, and there was a certain mutual respect between them. Swain turned back to the unhappy redhead before him.

"Any word on your father?" he inquired. Katarina's eyes narrowed. Her father, General Marcus Du Couteau, had gone missing not long after the death of Swain's predecessor.

"We haven't found him yet," she said, her tone guarded. Swain hid a sigh. Katarina clearly suspected that he'd had a hand in a father's death. The idea was preposterous, of course. If anything, Swain would have backed Marcus if he'd made a bid for the throne. He wished he could have told Katarina that, but of course, there was no way she would have believed it.

"Well, keep looking," he said instead. "Let us know if you need any assistance." Katarina nodded curtly (there was no other way she could really have responded). Then she spun on her heel and stalked away, Talon gliding silently after her.

Swain decided between caviar and calamari as the next courtier came forward. Somehow, Katarina's unfriendliness had ruined his appetite for well-wishes. He would have liked to maintain the support of one of Noxus's most prominent families, but clearly that just wasn't likely. Briefly, he wondered if ordering the main course to be served would send the rest of his visitors back to their seats.

"That one might be dangerous," Darius observed.

Swain nodded and turned to face his new right-hand man and staunchest supporter. "Indeed," he agreed. "It's a pity. Her father was one of my oldest and best friends. Still is, in fact. I hope we find him soon."

Darius turned away. "General Du Couteau was a good man," he said finally. As Swain had observed some time ago, Darius was not fond of discussing personal issues. Most Noxians weren't. Apparently it was a sign of weakness or something. There was actually some basis in that viewpoint, of course, but it also tended to greatly limit one's capabilities as a conversationalist. Swain personally had no problems with discussing personal issues—so long as they weren't his.

"Congratulations, Jericho," said a new voice, low and coy. The new arrival had seemed to materialize right out of thin air. Swain lifted his head slowly to effect a casual, almost lazy air. Before him stood a stunningly beautiful woman in a dress that could probably have been rated more aesthetic than functional. She was young with a youth that seemed it would be eternal, and yet her eyes and face seemed to belong to one with decades of wisdom and maturity. Perfection, some would have said. Swain sighed.

"Evaine," he said, his voice a blank, gravelly slate.

"So," Evaine offered her hand, "how does it feel to be the youngest Grand General in the history of Noxus?" Her voice seemed to wrap and coil around Swain, filling his head and burrowing into his soul. It was sweet yet powerful, and he had previously found it rather unnerving. Now, however, he was experienced enough to ignore it. He paused, glancing at the proffered hand, then reached out and shook it.

Evaine Leblanc's features shifted into a pout. "No kiss?" she teased. The customary greeting was for a gentleman to kiss a lady's hand. Swain shook his head. "Too conspicuous," he replied, although the truth was that he simply didn't like the practice and wasn't in the mood for playing along. He considered saying something more, if only to delay the inevitable.

"I expect you will honour our agreement." Leblanc's voice kept the same sweet, light quality, but there was no mistaking the cold steel in her words. Any hint of reluctance, Swain knew, would be foolish.

"Of course," he replied calmly, making sure not to sound cold or unhappy. Their gazes locked, and in Leblanc's dark eyes Swain saw neither youth nor sweetness, just terrifying power and relentless cunning. Leblanc nodded at him, then turned and disappeared just as suddenly as she had arrived.

Swain leaned back, reaching for a cup of water. The main drink at such events was wine or ale, but Swain didn't enjoy the taste of alcohol and he liked the thought of being inebriated even less. Still, he contemplated as he studied the glass and the clear liquid within, he'd probably gotten himself into far worse situations than drunkenness. This whole business with Evaine, for instance.

The simple truth was that he never would have risen to power without her. In a sense, he owed her everything, but that there was more to Evaine Leblanc than met the eye. There were so many things that were just so obviously off about her. The fact that she hadn't aged in the past sixteen years, at least not visibly. The way her eyes seem to change colour from time to time—dark tonight, but he'd seen them light blue, green, amber, hazel… They didn't call her the Deceiver for nothing. Leblanc the Deceiver. Leblanc the Eternal. Leblanc of the Black Rose.

Swain was a member of the Black Rose too, that ancient organisation that had previously controlled Noxus in secret. When Boram Darkwill's military government had seized power and purged Noxus of the old aristocracy, the Black Rose had seemed to disappear. Centuries later, however, it seemed membership still counted for something, as evidenced by Swain's meteoric rise. Unfortunately, membership also had a price.

Swain took a deep breath and carefully relaxed his facial muscles to avoid a frown. Suddenly, everything seemed to irk him—the noise of the crowd, the slightly rowdy behaviour of some of the partiers, the fact that he just knew Leblanc or her agents would be watching.

It was no fun being a puppet. No, Leblanc might have been a master manipulator, but two could play that game. He'd have to move quickly, stealthily, building up a power base independent of the Black Rose before they realised his intentions. The problem was that his Black Rose connections would likely be rather off-putting for many of the militarists. And there was still the matter of reforming Noxus to deal with this new, peace-crazed world. The euphoria of victory and success, it seemed, would last less than a day. Then again, he'd always known that it would be like this. Such was life. Such was power.

Swain considered the options for the main course: ribs, steak or leg of lamb. Why not a bit of each?

Yes, there was a lot on his plate. But it would be all the more satisfying for that.

_The game is afoot. Play well._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: This chapter is probably quite dry, but I wanted to show Swain in action (as far as a meeting counts as action) and outline some of the problem's he's facing. If you enjoy history, try spotting the references. **

**Just some context: Riot recently retconned their lore, and apparently the League of Legends doesn't exist anymore since omnipotent summoners are apparently a poor plot element. So the setting for this story does not have an Institute of War or a League of Legends as we know it. I treat events like Kalamanda as if they happened, but without the involvement of the League (presumably the parties involved sorted it out on their own). **

**Anyway, on to the story!**

* * *

><p>"I hate that man!" Katarina snarled, hurling yet another dagger across the practice range. A series of dull thuds echoed throughout the room as the throwing knife bounced from target to target.<p>

"He's a pest." she growled, hurling yet another dagger. Then, receiving no response, she spun to face the cloaked man several metres away. "Say something!" she shouted.

Talon remained in his statue-like pose, unfazed by his companion's fury. "What would you like me to say?" he asked coolly. That gave Katarina pause.

"Well…" she hesitated, "Don't you find him irritating?"

Talon tilted his head to one side. "Not really," he admitted. "He's quite entertaining, actually."

Katarina rolled her eyes. "No, he is not," she huffed.

Talon shrugged. "If you say so," he replied indifferently.

Katarina rolled her eyes again. "How can you be so calm?" she demanded. "Don't you realise that Noxus is now ruled by a creep?"

Talon tilted his head the other way. "Is he really that bad?" he asked quizzically.

"Yes!" Katarina yelled. "Just look at him!" She gestured wildly at the air in front of her. "He's tiny! He needs a walking stick! He's no warrior! He's a cowardly, conniving politician and I will not stand to have someone like that ruling Noxus!"

She spun away, fists clenched, nails digging into her palms until it hurt. Oh, how she hated him. Everything about him infuriated her. His cold, unflinching gaze that seemed to bore right into her soul; his calm, ever-polite voice that always managed to seize control of the conversation; his perfect, too-perfect manners. The fact that she always felt how little she knew about him. And above all, she hated the fact that a mere crippled peasant like him had somehow risen through the Noxian hierarchy even faster than she, the daughter of one of Noxus's top generals, had. It made no sense. It should not have happened. And yet, Chancellor Hawkmoon had not been jesting when he'd proclaimed Jericho Swain Grand General of Noxus.

"So," Talon said quietly, "what do you plan on doing about it?"

Somehow, the cool, emotionless words doused Katarina's fiery temper. She was silent for a surprisingly long time, and when she turned, there was a determined look on her face. For the third time in five minutes, Talon tilted his head to one side.

Katarina folded her arms. "He gave up Kalamanda for power in Noxus. A bold move. A strong move. The strong may rise to power here, but this wouldn't be Noxus if there weren't always others with the strength to challenge them."

Talon nodded calmly, gesturing for her to go on. Katarina drew another one of her daggers and spun it in her hand. "And at the end of the day," she muttered, almost to herself, "violence solves everything."

* * *

><p>Chaos. Bloodshed. Fire and strife. The world was one long, incessant cacophony. The booming of guns, the screech of sword on sword, the twang and whizz of bows and arrows, the screams of people and animals as they died. Leblanc's voice was nothing compared to this, this terrible symphony that drowned his mind and tore at his sanity.<p>

Smoke. Light. Flames. More screams. More steel on steel. Blood, flowing across his vision. More noise, so loud it seemed solid and made his head reel as if from shockwaves.

Shapes. He could make out shapes now. Silhouettes? A scuffle? More screams.

Hot. Hot. Too hot. Burning. Stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

And then suddenly, quiet. Silence, but no peace. A bleak sky, metal grey. Pain. Unimaginable pain. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't think.

_Wake up, Jericho._

What was that? A voice in his head? Wait, a shape, dropping from the sky.

_Wake up, Jericho._

Dark feathers. Red eyes. A bird of some sort. A raven? No, too many eyes. No raven has so many eyes…

_Jericho! Wake up!_

Swain's eyes snapped open. The same raven was perched on his chest, all six crimson eyes gazing down at him. He groaned and reached up to wipe the sheen of perspiration on his forehead away. Then he turned his head to look out the window. Sunlight was just creeping over the horizon. Well, it was time to wake up anyway.

Beatrice hopped off as he sat up, then turned to give him another concerned look. _Nightmares?_

Swain nodded, taking several deep breaths to calm himself. Slowly he climbed out of bed, retrieved his cane from his bedside and headed for the bathroom. His stomach hurt and he considered briefly the possibility that he really had eaten too much at the feast. He didn't regret it, though. There was a reason it was called a "feast", after all.

Having paid the price for overeating, Swain brushed his teeth and splashed water over his face. He almost never showered in the morning. It was a waste of water and he preferred to spend more time sleeping. With that done, he left the bathroom and crossed the room to the wardrobe. The armoured robes that formed his uniform were already hanging there and he changed into them, pausing when he was done to look in the mirror.

The face that stared back seemed barely human. Everything below the eyes was a patchwork of discoloured skin, too light in some places, too dark in others, paler than a corpse and covered in masses of scar tissue. The nose was slightly crooked, the cheeks withered and shrivelled. It was a face that had horrified hundreds several days ago. Swain reached up and touched one of the scars, a fresh one that ran down his temple.

There was a soft flutter of wings before Beatrice settled on the modified shoulder pad that served as a perch. Her reflection met Swain's eyes, then jerked its beak at the mirrored scar. _Still bothering you?_

Swain shook his head. _I'll be fine._

_You nearly died._

Swain cracked a smile. _Occupational hazard. What's new?_

Beatrice started preening her feathers. _If you say so. _She paused. _Your first High Command meeting starts in fifteen minutes. First as Grand General, anyway. _

Swain nodded and slipped on the cloth mask that he was never seen without in public. He checked the rest of his uniform. The breastplate was a little oversized, he thought. It made him look fat. Still, he supposed anything that added to his stature was good.

He sighed again and took a deep breath. "Well then," he said out loud, his voice already shifting into the cold, metallic tone he'd cultivated. "Let's go get them."

* * *

><p>Darius was usually early for High Command meetings, although they normally started late. It was something that had irked him a little at the start of his High Command posting, but over time he'd gotten used to it. Boram Darkwill had had a habit of entering several minutes late. Darius had assumed after a while that it was simply what Grand Generals did.<p>

So he was quite surprised to see Swain already at the table when he arrived ten minutes before the stipulated time. The new Grand General was staring straight ahead, nursing a mug of some liquid in his hands. A sheaf of papers lay on the table before him. His raven was perched on his shoulder as usual, its six keen eyes sweeping the room. It stared at Darius as he entered, and even the Hand of Noxus found that slightly disconcerting. He paused, unsure of what to do.

Swain nodded at Darius in greeting, and the raven looked away. Strange, Darius thought, how Swain's eyes seemed to match the bird's so closely. Both blood red, with dark pupils. Both with steady, penetrating gazes that seemed to peer into one's soul. Darius nodded back at his superior and took a seat, wondering if he should say something. He was fine with just waiting the ten minutes in silence, but he also felt the time could be spent more productively.

"Will you be restructuring the High Command, sir?" he asked. Swain looked up at him.

"If necessary," he replied. "But it would be a messy process and I'd rather avoid it."

Darius nodded and settled into silence as the minutes ticked by and more generals arrived. Bagration was early, as was usual. Suvorov, Manstein, Hoth, Rundstetd and Chuikov filed in in the last five minutes. Ritchtofen and Rokossovsky arrived right on time, as they always did, and Rommel arrived two minutes late, which was not exactly unexpected. Frederick was three minutes late.

Swain looked up again as the meeting room's doors were shut. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said. The generals nodded in reply. Aides began serving coffee, tea, sandwiches and biscuits. Swain, Darius noticed, had a separate pot for himself. Was that paranoia?

"Our first order of business today is Kalamanda." Swain continued. "As you all know, the recent incident there did not end well." Several generals shifted uncomfortably.

"Rest assured that I have no intention of blaming or punishing any one of you here for the incident. However, I do expect full cooperation from everyone in the dealing with this issue. Whatever differences or grievances you have between you should be put aside until the problem is resolved."

Across from Darius, Rokossovsky and Rommel nodded. Swain took a sip from his drink. "Now, as could have been expected, the people of Kalamanda believe we started the battle."

"Sir, it's a well-known fact that Jarvan the Fourth led the first attack on our camp." Manstein cut in.

Swain shrugged. "Jarvan claims that he was nowhere near Kalamanda at the time of the assault. Demacia is backing him, and their alias looks clean."

"You don't actually believe that, do you, sir? You fought Jarvan yourself." Manstein said, frowning. Swain shrugged again.

"What I mean", he explained slowly, "is that we have no way of disproving Demacia's claims, and the rest of the world believes them." He looked at Manstein meaningfully. "What we believe or would like to believe means nothing now. What _Kalamanda _believes is that we somehow staged a mock attack as an excuse for an offensive of our own. They also believe that this means Noxus would be an unsuitable trading partner."

Now the Grand General paused and sat back, and his tone softened considerably. "As I said, I don't intend to hang the blame for this on anyone. None of you were there and I accept full responsibility for this." The generals nodded cautiously, unsure where this was going. Grand Generals didn't normally make scapegoats of themselves. Swain took a sip from his mug and went back to business.

"Unfortunately, Kalamanda is now effectively lost to us, which means we are going to have to look elsewhere for resources. Rokossovsky, Bagration, your units are farthest North. I want prospecting teams out surveying the Ironspike Mountains. Rundstetd, Hoth, do the same down South. Move into the foothills of the Great Barrier if you have too. Ritchtofen, I want a report on any potential resource sites by the end of the week. Right now, off the tops of your heads, does anyone have any other ideas?" Heads shook throughout the room. Swain shrugged a third time.

"Next, I understand intelligence has reported that Demacia recently raised three new legions along our Western border. What are your thoughts?"

"It's a precaution," Suvorov said, "in the case of an attempt to seize Kalamanda."

"A deterrent," Rommel put in.

"They're preparing for an offensive?" Rundstetd suggested.

Swain nodded. "All possibilities," he said. "What are the odds of us winning a war with Demacia right now?" He glanced around the room to include the rest of the generals in the question.

"Not good," Bagration stated. "Not when they have Kalamanda and these three new legions. And not when we have yet to recover from the Ionian War."

Of course, that last sentence hid a lot more than it said. It wasn't just the fact that several of Noxus's divisions were badly mauled and needed to be rebuilt, or that the reserve resources expended on the campaign needed to be replenished. Noxus's unsuccessful invasion of Ionia had made it look not just aggressive and cruel but weak as well, and reputation was something a lot harder to build than divisions and supply stores. That Demacia was now in a superior position to its longtime rival was no question.

But to shrink from the challenge, to withdraw and retreat, was not the Noxian way. Noxians didn't retreat. Noxians didn't surrender. They faced the enemy head on and brought them down, no matter the odds. And as for reputations, well, the only reputation that mattered in Noxus was strength.

"We can beat them," Darius interjected. "Those new legions will need time to train. We can use that time to reposition and rebuild our forces, and raise new divisions to meet this threat. Eventually, we _will _be able to retake Kalamanda."

Swain gave Darius an inscrutable look, then turned back to the rest of the table. "Whatever it is, a buildup of our own forces will likely draw the ire of the international community, so we need to proceed with caution." He paused. "Still, Darius is right. We need to prepare for the worst. Suvorov, prepare defensive positions along the Kalamanda Highway and all major trade routes from Demacian or any of their outposts to here. And make sure you have plans to deal with any enemy offensive. We'll prepare a statement saying it's a necessary precaution since Demacia now has a forward operations base in Kalamanda, but try to keep everything quiet anyway."

Swain glanced around the table, no doubt doing a snap assessment of the generals he had in mind for whatever plan he had come up with. Darius knew there was a plan. With Swain, there always was.

"Rommel, reconstitute a working army from what's left of the Ionian invasion force. I want existing units back at pre-war conditions, stronger if possible. Organize a working command structure and make arrangements for rapid deployment to the western border in the event of war."

Swain looked around again, seeking other faces. "Ritchtofen, get our diplomats on this. Don't reveal we know about the new legions unless it's already public info, but dig up whatever you can about Demacia's intentions. Try to mollify Kalamanda and Demacia if they get agitated. And get people on the ground in Kalamanda to keep track of what's going on there."

Swain paused for another drink and a biscuit, then resumed his rapid-fire orders. "Everyone else, secure your sectors and make sure your troops are combat-ready and quickly deployable to the western front."

"In the event of a Demacian attack," he elaborated, "Suvorov's forces will stall the enemy's advance. We'll hold back contingents from the Northern and Southern Fronts along with Rommel's forces for a counterattack, but we might need to reinforce Suvorov before then, so make sure your troops are ready for it. If you have any other ideas, let me know."

Heads nodded in agreement all over the room. It was the strategy most of them would have come to in the end. No other ideas were forthcoming, at least not yet. There were questions instead.

"Do you plan on retaking Kalamda, sir?" Darius asked.

Swain tilted his head to one side. "Why not?" he asked, then immediately straightened and answered his own question. "Taking Kalamanda would result in a serious diplomatic problem. They don't like us and conquering them isn't going to improve their attitude. I'd prefer to use persuasion rather than force. So no, attacking Kalamanda would not be a good strategy. But if Demacia attacks and their forces are broken, Kalamanda might be persuaded to side with us instead."

Darius nodded. He wasn't in total agreement, since he felt Kalamanda would simply have to obey Noxus whether it liked it or not, but Swain's position would have to do for now. Besides, the Master Tactician seemed to know what he was talking about.

"The next item, or rather few items, on our agenda is our domestic issues." Swain was going through these at a breakneck pace, Darius thought. Darkwill would probably have been just starting on the Demacian legions, or maybe he'd still be on the first item. Swain had just solved three, when one included the matter of the recently returned invasion force now having a new purpose.

"Crime rates have been soaring in the last few decades. It seems that syndicates are proliferating in the lower levels. Chuikov, stamp them out." There was a brief pause. "Focus on the core structure—the leadership, the financiers. Be thorough, and hopefully the peripherals will die off without them."

Swain glanced around the room again. "Draythe Darkwill has, as you all know, gone to ground. I would have been willing to let him keep his place in High Command, but his actions do not indicate particular interest in working with me." The grand general turned to face Darius. "Darius, find him and bring him in. Alive if possible. Dead if not."

Swain returned his attention to the rest of the table. "Next up is our poverty issue." All around the table, generals hid sighs. "Darkwill declined to discuss this much," Swain went on knowingly, "but the fact is that a weak population is unlikely to result in a strong nation, and poor people are unlikely to be particularly loyal to their governments. Solving this issue is vital to maintaining the strength and growth of Noxus. To that end, we are going to have to open our economy for more trade and divert funds to domestic spending"—this time the sighs were less well hidden—"which means budget cuts for the army. Our chemical weapons program is going to slow down. A lot."

"Sir," Manstein interrupted, "aren't you concerned about the fact that our forces remain inferior to Demacia's? Those chemical weapons might be the only advantage we have."

Swain nodded. "Point taken. But as we all know, chemical weapons aren't really considered civilized these days, and apparently being civilized is necessary to prevent the world from descending on us like a ton of bricks. We aren't presently fit to lift a particularly large quantity of bricks, as you just noted, so we can't really risk international ire. In any case, the usage of chemical weapons on our own soil might not be a particularly wise move. We all know what the Zaunite Melters did to Ionia. Finally, our Melters are perhaps the only force that did not suffer significant casualties in the invasion, so we have a decent-sized force of them already."

A short silence followed. Many of the generals had blank, emotionless faces, but it was quite obvious they were worried about the decision. Darius felt uneasy himself.

"Rest assured, gentlemen," Swain added calmly, "that I will dig up some things to give us an edge over Demacia. I already have some ideas. I will inform you once they are in place. In any case, a committee will be formed to design and implement the new social programs. I'll take care of that. None of you will have to lose any sleep over it."

And with that, yet another issue was dealt with.

"Our final matter is the mysterious disappearance of General Du Couteau. If any of you have any information or any theories, please share them now."

"General Du Couteau was last seen heading an investigation in the Ivory Ward," Darius reported. "His disappearance matches the time of an altercation that took place there several days ago. I led the unit that responded to the incident. We found no survivors. As far as we know, all personnel accompanying the general have disappeared too."

Swain's frowned. "No bodies?" Darius nodded.

"None, sir."

Swain raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"It might be the Black Rose, sir," Chuikov said. Swain narrowed his eyes, then nodded.

"Yes it might."

"Could have been one of Keiran's supporters, too," Manstein suggested. Of course, Darius thought, it could just as wekk have been one of Swain's supporters, but it wouldn't have been politic to say that.

"Could be," Swain agreed. Then, when no one else spoke, he carried on. "The Sinister Blade and the Blade's Shadow are looking into this. Give them whatever assistance is necessary."

"Both of them, sir?" Rundstetd questioned. "Is that prudent?" Darius had to agree with that. With a potential war with Demacia on the horizon, sending two of Noxus's top assassins to hunt down a missing and quite possibly dead general did not sound like a particularly good allocation of resources.

Swain shrugged. "Not as if there's a lot more for them to do right now. In the meantime, I don't think that anyone here would disagree that General Du Couteau's presence would be a valuable asset in the event of a war. But just in case, we'll monitor the search and order them to stay in contact." Well, it was a bit harder to argue with that, apart from the fact that one you couldn't always count on those two to 'stay in contact'. But in any case, the grand general had the final say.

"Well, gentleman, that's all for now. I'll expect weekly reports on your progress and whatever else crops up. Also, I'm still open to any suggestions you might have regarding our various predicaments. If there's nothing else…" his voice trailed off questioningly.

"What about the empty High Command seats, sir?" Rokossovsky inquired. "Do you intend to fill them?" The recent power struggle had seen the deaths or disappearances of about a third of High Command.

Swain shook his head. "I think there are enough of us here already and there aren't many suitable candidates available. We'll stick with this for now. If that's all, this meeting is adjourned." Heads nodded all over the room as generals tried to hide expressions of relief. So it seemed the customary purges hadn't started. Not yet, anyway.

Darius and Swain stayed in their seats as the room emptied. When they were alone, Swain sighed and his shoulders seemed to sag slightly. He turned to Darius.

"How did that go?" he asked. He sounded tired.

Darius thought for a moment before replying. "Fast. Very fast. Darkwill normally took over an hour." Swain had taken roughly fifteen minutes.

Swain nodded. "No point wasting anyone's time," he said.

Darius cracked a smile. "Indeed. It's good to be efficient."

Swain nodded. "Thanks.'

"So," Darius continued, "what was your 'idea' for dealing with Demacia?"

Swain responded with a question of his own. "What was our biggest problem at Kalamanda?"

Darius frowned as he mentally reviewed the battle. "The lack of a unit to counter the Dauntless Vanguard," he answered at last.

Swain nodded approvingly. "Yes. Traditionally, Demacia's advantages over us have been derived chiefly from units precisely like the Dauntless Vanguard. Powerful shock units capable of breaking through our lines and outlasting our own troops in a set-piece fight."

"We've dealt with them before," Darius pointed out.

Swain's forehead creased. "Yes, typically with similar units like Rommel's Lightning Corps or the Raedsel Guards or Fury Company. But we don't have many of those, certainly not enough to match Demacia's strength in that area."

"What about artillery or skirmishers, sir?" Darius asked. Swain drew his eyebrows together.

"Ah yes, the other traditional counter." He chuckled. "Those require rather specific situations, my friend. They need time and space. They can't go toe to toe with the Dauntless Vanguard or the Valor Knights. And they can't do the same things. They can't lead attacks. They can't fight upfront or penetrate an enemy line."

Darius nodded. "I take it you plan to do something about the shortage of elite shock units, sir."

Swain nodded. "Yes. And in the meantime, we ought to play to our strengths, should we not? You mentioned artillery. I intend to equip our forces with a new weapon, one that does not cause the same problems our Zaunite Melters do."

"I assume you'll inform me when the time is right," Darius said.

Swain nodded. "Yes."

Darius paused over his next question. Silence briefly filled the room before he asked, "Do any of the generals in High Command worry you, sir?"

Swain shot Darius another one of those unreadable stares. "I don't think we'll need to purge anyone," he replied at length. "Most of our opponents have happily killed themselves off and the survivors seem quite reasonable. But keep an eye on things and let me know if you have any concerns."

Darius nodded. Come to think of it, the remaining members of High Command were those who hadn't made a bid for the throne. The only survivor of the challengers was Draythe Darkwill.

"Draythe Darkwill might be a problem, however," Swain said, his thoughts clearly mirroring his subordinate's. "Find him quickly, please."

"I'll get on it right away, sir." Darius stood and left the room.

Swain nodded. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>Jericho Swain heaved a sigh of relief a moment after Darius had exited the meeting room. Well, that hadn't gone too badly.<p>

Beatrice hopped onto the table before him and began pecking at a leftover slice of sandwich. _Not bad for a first try._

Swain poured the remaining contents of the pot into his mug. He'd had it prepared specially, not just to ensure no one poisoned it, but also because it was a peculiar mix of coffee, tea, and a lot of milk and sugar, and he doubted anyone else would have wanted to drink it. It would also have made him look weird, which was not a reputation he wanted to cultivate right now.

He leafed through the papers before him until he found the one he wanted.** Test Report**, it was titled. The letters were perfectly printed, too perfectly to have been written by a human hand. And interestingly, there were none of the indents on the paper that quills typically left behind. Another one of the good doctor's useful inventions.

The Master Tactician skimmed through the report until he saw the three words he had waited months for.

**Weapon operationally ready.**

Behind his mask, Swain smiled. "Well, we have our artillery," he remarked. "Now we just have to find our champions."

* * *

><p><strong>Wow, that was long. Let me know what you think :)<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_Fourteen years ago…_

It was going to be a hard campaign. Marcus knew that even before he'd read the briefing documents.

The colonel general had fought many opponents in his fifteen years of service, but it had always been his first—the northern barbarians, which he had feared the most. Already he could see in his mind's eye the long months on the road, ungodly casualty lists he would have to sign. And he knew also that it would be all for nothing. He'd be doing the same song and dance a year from now. Two at most.

But it was necessary. How many villages had the barbarians had destroyed over the years? Marcus didn't know. They raided constantly, striking suddenly from the wild steppes and wastes between Noxus and the Ironspike Mountains, plundering and burning small settlements before fading away into the distance. Noxus had never been able to catch them. The nomads simply knew the terrain better and, without bases or strongholds to destroy or lands to conquer, there was no way to stop their operations permanently. But the raids were a problem. So Noxus simply kept trying, throwing men and material away in a vain attempt to stop the problem.

He'd seen it before. An entire village burned to the ground. The first responder, he'd arrived too late, far too late, and it was a fact that had haunted him for days. He remembered the lone survivor, a young boy, maybe fourteen? Even now, years later, he could see in his mind the horrifically burnt face, the terribly broken leg. Marcus frowned as the memories drifted back into his mind. There had been something strange about that boy, he remembered. Those cold, piercing red eyes. The fact that he hadn't been crying or screaming, just sitting stolidly in the ashes of his village. The mysterious six-eyed raven that had accompanied him.

"Father?" a small voice pulled Marcus away from his reminiscing. He looked up to see Cassiopeia standing in the doorway. "You're going away again, aren't you?" she asked. The general sighed and nodded. Cassiopeia ran to him and climbed into his lap, hugging him tightly.

"Come back quickly, daddy," she whispered plaintively. "Please?" Marcus sighed as he stroked his daughter's honey blonde hair.

"I'll come back as quickly as I can," he said gently.

"Where are you going, dad?" Another voice, louder, bolder, more aggressive.

Marcus looked up at his elder daughter. "There's a campaign against the northern barbarians," he explained. "I'm about to leave."

"Wow," Katarina smiled. "Sounds exciting. Kill a few of them for me, eh, dad?"

Marcus forced a smile. "I'll do my worst," he replied. Cassiopeia hugged him tighter.

"Just don't let them kill you, too," she whispered, her voice cracking. Marcus stroked her hair again.

"I'll do my best," he promised. He gently eased Cassiopeia off his lap, then picked up the briefing document and his bags and headed downstairs. It was cold outside. The leaves had already fallen from the trees and the first snows were only weeks away. A cold breeze set his cloak flapping as he marched slowly to his carriage. He hugged and kissed his daughters one last time, then let the nannies pry them away as he boarded the carriage. Cassiopeia was crying. Katarina smiled proudly.

Marcus sighed as the carriage pulled out of the driveway. He could still picture them. Cassiopeia, with her gold hair and dark emerald eyes, her graceful poise and charms and sensitivity. Katarina, with her bright leaf-green eyes and crimson hair, her courage and passion and determination. And a third image surfaced, a grimy, sooty, bloody peasant boy, staring patiently and emotionlessly up at the Noxian patrol that had arrived too late to save his family.

Yes, he would fight for them. Whatever the cost, whatever the risk, whatever the difficulty. No matter how fruitless, no matter how frustrating. He would fight with all the strength and courage and cunning and ferocity he could muster. And he would win, whatever it took.

As the carriage bumped over the cobblestones on its way to High Command, Marcus flipped the folder open to find that whoever had drafted the briefing documents had been one step ahead of him. This new campaign, he realised quickly as he leafed through the well-written papers, was far more ambitious and decisive than anything Noxus had ever done. This time, they would drive north all the way to the Ironspike Mountains, pushing the barbarians beyond the mountain range where they could never come near Noxus again. It was brilliant. A bold move. A strong move. And maybe, just maybe, it was the answer they had been looking decades for.

Marcus flipped through the pages to the end, where the planner's name was listed. Interestingly, the planner was apparently a mere cadet at the staff officer school. This campaign plan had started out as his final paper. Marcus closed the folder and looked across to his aide-de-camp to issue his first order of the campaign.

"When we get to High Command, contact Personnel and see if you can get Jericho Swain transferred to our unit at once. I want him on my staff team."

* * *

><p>The office was huge, cavernous almost, with heavy decorations ranging from the elaborate paintings all over the walls to the ornately carved furniture to the intricately patterned brocade drapes. It was a lot more impressive than Swain's old office, which had been small, plain, and unadorned. It bordered on decadence, actually. Still, he supposed that rank had its privileges, and Boram Darkwill had always enjoyed his.<p>

Swain had found the office in precisely the way Boram had left it, that was to say, quite empty. In the few times he'd been in here, Swain had never seen stray files or papers lying around. Boram Darkwill had always been a tidy man. Or, Swain reflected, it could just as well have been paranoia. Stray files gave evidence of what one was doing, and Boram had always kept information about him under close wraps. You never knew when free-floating information might come back to bite you.

In any case, Boram's extensive archives and library were now Swain's property, a fact which he was grateful for. Knowledge was power, after all. And right now, Swain needed power. A lot of it.

Given that thought, Swain wondered briefly why he wasn't reading any of the books on Boram's shelves. Perhaps one of them might hold the answers he was looking for. Unfortunately, he was a strict perfectionist who would almost always finish whatever he was reading before he would be willing to start on anything else.

The current preoccupation was a complete list of Noxian military and paramilitary units. Technically, the list fitted into a single large arch file, but since he needed specific details, he had to refer to something like a dozen different auxillary files in order to find what he was looking for. His desk now looked like a mountain range, complete with peaks, cliffs, slopes, valleys, and a resident Greater Noxian Raven.

Then again, Swain remembered, Greater Noxian Ravens were also found in swamps. But give it a few more hours of coffee-tea cups (he had no idea what to call the mixture) and he'd probably have some swamps too, mud and all.

_Found anything? _

Swain eyed Beatrice wearily. "No," he replied. "Nothing I don't already know."

_That's problematic._

"Yes it is," Swain agreed as he returned his gaze to the file. He turned a page. "I asked for a shortlist of units that might be candidates for what I have in mind, but apparently 'shortlist' means something different from 'short list'."

Beatrice tilted her head to one side. _They just never seem to get it, do they? _A hint of amusement gleamed in her six eyes. Swain considered scowling, then realised that he'd made a joke and so had no excuse to complain about his addressee being amused. Then again, he doubted Beatrice was amused by the joke so much as his irritation.

_I take it this not-so-short list also lacks the content you are looking for. _Swain looked up again, smiling mirthlessly this time.

"When I have to shortlist the candidates on a shortlist…" he began. Beatrice preened her feathers, which gave an impression markedly like that of a shrug.

_That happens all the time._

Swain shook his head. "That's true, but you know what I mean. And that's not the real problem. The real problem is that of the six units I've shortened this list to, only four have actually proven themselves capable of doing what I need them to do, and one of the four doesn't exist anymore."

_I can guess the four. So what are the other two?_

"The 8th cavalry and 76th infantry battalions. They're good, but they're nowhere near the standard we need."

_Any chance we can bring them up to standard?_

Swain thought about that. "In time," he mused, "but time is not something we can count on having right now."

But the idea had set him thinking. Come to think of it, all four of the units he had deemed serviceable had started out as ordinary enough units. What was it that had made them so special? He reviewed the four candidates.

Riven's Fury Company

Rommel's Lightning Corps

Darius' Black Hand

The Raedsel Guard

The answer came suddenly, so simple he was annoyed he hadn't thought of it earlier.

_Riven's _Fury Company. _Rommel's_ Lightning Corps. _Darius' _Black Hand. The Raedsel Guard—_Raedsel's guards_.

"Leaders," he murmured. Beatrice nodded.

Swain nodded slowly to himself too. It was interesting, he thought, how the right person in the right place at the right time could sometimes make all the difference—or most of it, anyway. Perhaps if he could identify the right personnel, put them in the right places...

_No_. Swain shook his head twice to clear it. That was a stupid idea, or a stupid one to bet the fate of a country on, in any case. As far as he could tell, there would have been no Riven without Fury Company, no Rommel without the Lightning Corps, and no Darius without the Black Hand. There might still have been a Raedsel, but his name certainly would not have been so immortalised without the Raedsel Guard or, more specifically, the unit that now formed the Raedsel Guard. Swain knew it, just as he knew that none of his victories would have been possible without the soldiers under his command. Not always the best, not always the brightest, but it was they, after all, who had ultimately got the job done. They deserved the honours as much as he did, particularly when one considered the crazy things he'd had them do, often without explaining his plans fully.

With that in mind, Swain looked back at the two open documents he'd just read: the full records of the 8th Cavalry and 76th Infantry battalions. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to see anything behind the reports or statistics, nothing that could come close to disproving his conclusion.

Of course, both units had impressive track records. The 76th Infantry had held the fort at Tombrey, repulsing repeated attacks by a full regiment of Demacian heavy infantry. That action had bought time for Noxian reinforcements to arrive and turn the tide. The 8th Calvary had carried the day at Selvester, seizing on a small tactical error to break the Demacian ranks and turn what would otherwise have been a difficult battle into a complete rout. Swain had to smile at the memory. He'd been the one who'd spotted the opportunity, a small gap that had opened as the Demacian infantry attempted to reposition themselves.

Worthy achievements, worthy units, but not enough (which, Swain reflected ruefully, made them rather _unworthy_). The Dauntless Vanguard had turned the tides at the Third Battle of the Howling Marsh, where they had slogged through quicksand, sinkholes, crocodilians, snakes, snapping turtles, howling wind and pouring rain to outflank a force roughly eight times their size. Never mind that they'd only been a diversion for the main Demacian force; all told, the odds had still been something like two to one, and when the Noxian forces had routed their comrades, they'd attacked anyway, turning what could have been a disastrous defeat into an astounding victory. And that hadn't been the last time they'd done something like that.

The Lightning Corps had been largely responsible for destroying Demacian power south of the Marshes of Kaladoun during the final Noxian offensive of the last Rune War. Rommel's elite cavalry had advanced so far into Demacian territory that they had lost contact with their own supply lines, and spent several weeks living on captured enemy supplies as a result. By the time the war ended, Rommel had already reported seeing Demacia in the distance.

There were other stories to tell, but they weren't necessary. Swain leaned back and sighed, rubbing his face. This wasn't working. He simply didn't have the units. The Grand General sighed and laid his head face-down on the table.

_No heroes, I see. _Swain sat up again to give Beatrice a baleful glance.

_Oh, sorry. I meant 'no units'._ Swain rolled his eyes.

No units. No troops. No numbers. Swain frowned.

_What's new?_

The Master Tactician's eyes narrowed.

_Think laterally. _Beatrice's thoughts were exactly the same as his own.

Well, he thought, we've tried units. What's the alternative? There was something floating somewhere in the back of his mind. He'd been on to something earlier, he sensed. The problem was that, as so often happens, it was slipping away the harder he tried to capture it.

So he paused, and closed his eyes, and relaxed, letting his thoughts flow freely. And then all of a sudden, it drifted by, like a fish swimming innocently into the mawof an alligator snapping turtle. Swain's metaphorical jaws snapped shut.

What was that he'd said earlier, in the meeting room? Champions? Champions—units to lead the charge, to hold the line when all else failed, to be a rallying point for their compatriots. Maybe he didn't need whole units after all.

Champions. Leaders, in their own way. And what had he been thinking just now about leaders? His mind racing, Swain dug through the piles of files on his desk with a strange half-smile on his face.

The folder he was looking for was small, nothing compared to the huge arch and ring files scattered haphazardly about, but it was one of the most important. The front cover read **SAUS-Class Assets**. The letters stood for Supernatural, Arcane, Ultra-scientific and Superhuman. Swain himself was on the list, as was Darius. His excitement growing, Swain skimmed through the pages.

Then he sighed and sat back, glowering in frustration. Beatrice looked up from her preening. _Nothing you can use?_ Swain sighed again.

"There's no one suitable here," he complained. "Katarina, Cassiopeia, Vladimir, Talon, Draven, Morgana—they're not front line fighters. I'd be a fool to use them in that capacity. Urgot's a hero, supposedly, but his inspiring days are over. Besides, he was never much of a leader. And don't tell me we ought to send Singed, Mundo or Warwick in, or worse, let them augment our units."

Beatrice's six-eyed gaze was cold and steady. _You're not exactly spoilt for choice._

"No, I'm not," Swain muttered. "And that's the problem." He sighed. He wasn't thinking laterally enough, he decided. He was trying too hard to match Demacia in a field in which they had always had clear superiority. He needed to find another way to beat them. He needed his own strengths, his own style, his own methods.

"Back to basics," he told himself. "What is the object of battle?"

The answer sprang to mind immediately. "To destroy the enemy." Strictly speaking, it wasn't a perfectly comprehensive answer, but it was true enough.

I don't have to fight as the Demacians do, he realised, with heroes and leaders and champions. I don't have to match them. I don't even have to actually fight them. I just have to destroy them, and try not to get destroyed in the process.

The Grand General smiled. He looked through the documents again and finalised his decision.

Swain flipped through the pages of the **SAUS **folder, right to the back. Several pages were kept in a separate section with a black divider labeled **Reanimation/Reanimated Subjects**. A thought struck him and he pulled out the report he'd received earlier in the day, a report with the rather ignominious and uncreative title of **Test Report**. But titles didn't matter. Results did. Swain carefully slid the report into another folder, one with a slightly more interesting title. Well, it was time to pay a visit to Zaun anyway.

Then he turned back to the open **SAUS **folder, flipped the page, and began to read.

* * *

><p>"So what happened in Zaun?" Katarina asked as she twirled a knife absentmindedly in her hand.<p>

The cloaked, cowled figure drew the curtains on the recently-shut windows and stepped away from them before replying.

"Our… mutual friend paid a visit to some key scientists, specifically Professor Stanwick-Pididly, the Mad Chemist, Dr Mundo and the Machine Herald."

Katarina frowned. That didn't say a lot. "Is that all you could come up with?" she demanded.

Talon shrugged, unperturbed by her irritability. Katarina had never had a particularly good temper, and she'd only become even more edgy as of late.

"I got close enough to hear Swain mention that he'd be returning to Zaun in a month to 'check on progress'," he continued.

This time, Katarina nodded slowly. "Did he mention if the next visit would be a state visit or an informal one?"

"Nothing that I heard," Talon answered. "But this particular visit seemed pretty informal, and he didn't say that the next one would be any different. I think that whatever Swain's up to, it probably isn't public business."

Katarina nodded again. "So we can assume he'll be travelling alone?"

Talon shrugged again. "Presumably."

Katarina smiled and rose from her seat. "Well then," she said, "I'll be off. Try not to burn the house down while I'm away."

Talon tilted his head to one side as his boss's daughter left the room. "Where are you going?" he asked. His voice was more curious than puzzled.

"Ionia," Katarina replied over her shoulder, adding, "Keep an eye on Swain!"


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was inconveniently high in the sky by the time the unmarked boat drew up to the beach. Its lone passenger shielded her eyes from the glare as sunlight glinted off the pure white sand. Behind her, the helmsman skillfully guided the boat to a perfect stop at the water's edge. The waters of the small lagoon were quite choppy, but the slim, upright figure standing in the bow of the boat seemed unperturbed, swaying easily with the motion of the vessel.

The boat shook slightly as its keel came to rest upon the soft sand, and the passenger leaped straight onto the beach, landing on the soft, slippery ground with catlike grace. She turned back to the boat as one of the crew tossed her a bag, which she caught without any trouble.

"Thanks, Zakary!" she called.

Zakary nodded, then said, "We'll wait for you out there." He pointed at a nearby island well within view of the lagoon. "Come back to this beach and signal us when you're done."

The woman nodded, then shifted her gaze to the strange land ahead. A short distance away, the beach gave way to foreign-looking trees. They resembled the pine trees that grew in the Black Forest northeast of Noxus, but they were different somehow. In a sense, they looked more elegant, with their trunks and branches curving slightly as opposed to the straight, stiff black pines. Their brown barks looked earthier, more organic, unlike the bleak black shells of the trees back home. Behind the trees, green, snowless mountains rose in the distance, veiled by gentle mist. It was a surprisingly peaceful scene, but peace was the last thing on Katarina's mind.

Taking a deep breath, the Sinister Blade set off into Ionia, her boots leaving a shallow trail in the sand. She made no sound as she walked.

The crew of the boat watched her disappear into the treeline. They glanced over the beach and the surrounding area once more, although they weren't exactly admiring the scenery either. Then they put back out to sea, the boat gliding smoothly through the water. They left no trail.

* * *

><p>Talon sensed the tension in the house the moment he entered. Servants were darting about from place to place, hugging the walls as if to stay out of sight. A large group of them was huddled in the kitchen downstairs, discussing something in hushed whispers. They had terrified, panicky looks in their eyes. All in all, it was no scene of professionalism.<p>

The assassin's eyes narrowed as he entered the kitchen. "What's going on?" he demanded. The servants looked up nervously. Talon tilted his head to one side. "What's going on?" he repeated, more firmly this time.

A young maidservant finally plucked up the courage to answer. "L…L…L…Lady Cassiopeia demanded a mirror," she whispered, smiling nervously as if divulging some great secret. Talon frowned. Ever since her... transformation, Cassiopeia had refused to look in any mirrors.

"Why did she want it?" The maid shook her head. "We don't know… Why does Lady Cassiopeia do anything?" she stopped, clapping her hand over her mouth as she realised that she might have said something offensive.

Talon examined the maidservant—Jean Vannette, he remembered. Young, with short blonde hair and pretty blue eyes, she was one of the newer ones, having started work here about a year ago. She seemed to have a particular fixation with Cassiopeia's condition. It was her favourite discussion topic.

Talon was honest enough to admit that the girl did have a point, but he also didn't appreciate his mentor's daughter being made into a gossip topic. He was about to say so when a stern woman's voice cut across the room.

"Back to work, all of you! You aren't being paid to sit around and dawdle! Now get moving!"

Talon hid a smile as Madame Bergrin stormed into the kitchen, plying the huddled servants with her wooden ladle and driving them back to their stations like a sheepdog herding wolves. A stout, elderly woman of sixty-four, she'd been head housekeeper of the Du Couteau estate since before he'd been born. Even though he'd never known her to be a warrior, he respected her for her discipline, her culinary and administrative skills and her absolute loyalty to the Du Couteau family.

And, of course, her skill with the ladle. Talon wasn't sure how useful that would actually be in a war, but it actually scared him sometimes, and it was entertaining to watch.

When order and discipline had been restored in the kitchen, Madame Bergrin turned to Talon.

"Sorry, young man," she said, "I told them to stay in the kitchen for their own safety. Didn't intend for them to interpret that as a reason to stop working."

Talon waved the apology away. "It's fine. What's going on up there?"

Madame Bergrin sighed. "While you were out," she said quietly, "a message arrived from the Grand General himself. I didn't get to see it, but Cassiopeia seemed very upset after reading it. She locked herself in the room and threw a tantrum. Then she called for a mirror. We delivered it and haven't heard from her since."

Talon thought about that for a while. A message from Swain was worrying, particularly given the activities Katarina was presently engaged in. But he couldn't let the rest of the household know that. As far as they knew, the problem here was Cassiopeia's behaviour, not Katarina's.

"She's been quiet ever since?" Talon asked. Madame Bergrin nodded gravely.

Now that really _was_ strange. On the rare occasions that she had looked in mirrors over the past few years, Cassiopeia had never failed to throw a messy (and sometimes bloody) tantrum. Something big must have been up for her to look in a mirror without smashing it.

Talon was still thinking when Madame Bergrin spoke again. "I'm not sure if it's safe up there yet. Do you think you could take a look?"

Talon shrugged. "No problem." Unless, of course, Cassiopeia had her petrifying gaze on.

Talon strode briskly up the steps and along the balustrade until he came to Cassiopeia's room. It was quiet, an oddity considering that Cassiopeia was supposed to be in there with a mirror. Calmly, he pressed his ear against the door, holding his breath to avoid making any background noise. He could hear muttering inside and faint rustles.

Somehow, this situation was more worrying than the time two years ago when Cassiopeia had turned a maid to stone and poisoned a butler.

Suddenly afflicted with a mild sense of trepidation, Talon reached for the door knocker and gave the heavy oak door three loud raps.

"Cassiopeia?" he called. "Are you in there?" A stupid question, he realised, seeing as he already knew the answer. But he wasn't sure what else to say.

There was a pause. Then Cassiopeia's light but somehow raspy voice replied, "Yes."

Talon considered his next move. Of course, going in seemed like a very bad idea right now, but he was surprisingly curious to find out what was going on. And, although he might not have admitted or even realised it, part of him felt slightly protective about Cassiopeia. Marcus had always doted on her.

That settled it for Talon. Before his disappearance, Marcus had told Talon to take care of his daughters. He knew what the general would have wanted him to do.

His decision made, the Blade's Shadow knocked on the door again. "Can I come in?" he asked.

There was a longer pause this time. "Alright." Cassiopeia's voice sounded strained.

Taking a deep breath, Talon twisted the doorknob and eased the door open, then advanced cautiously into the room, drawing aside the large curtain that ran across its centre. What he found was unexpected.

Cassiopeia was coiled in front of the dresser, eyeing her reflection in a small hand mirror and muttering fretfully to herself. She was dressed in her usual fashion these days (that was to say, hardly), but the floor around her was strewn with a bewildering variety of clothes. Her wardrobes and cupboards had all been flung open, and assorted pieces of jewellery were scattered all over the dresser top.

Frowning, Talon picked his way over the mess towards his charge, making sure not to step on any of the expensive silks, satins, brocades, furs and other fabrics he couldn't identify. Glimpses of Cassiopeia's extensive wardrobe never failed to amaze him. How on earth could anyone own, keep and wear so many clothes? Why on earth would anyone _want _to? The Blade's Shadow himself possessed something like four sets of clothing, excluding spares.

Finally, Talon found himself standing next to Cassiopeia—slightly behind, to be exact. He hoped that would increase his chances of survival if things got messy. "What's going on?" he asked.

Cassiopeia took a deep breath and lowered the pearl necklace she'd been holding up to her neck.

"He…he…" she stammered, "Swain wants to meet me for dinner. Tonight." Talon took a half step back in surprise. On the one hand, it sounded harmless enough. On the other, he'd seen the depth of Swain's cunning before and a seemingly innocuous request like this was only arousing his suspicions.

Cassiopeia laid the pearls down and reached for another necklace, this one a gold chain set with diamonds. "I… I don't know what to do," she continued. "I don't know what to wear, what to say, what…" her voice trailed off and she was silent for several seconds. Then without warning, she twisted round to face him. Talon tensed and slammed his eyes shut, but no attack came.

"It's about sister, isn't it?" Cassiopeia said, her voice shaking slightly with fear. "She went off a few days ago and… and… She's in trouble now, isn't she?" She didn't seem to have noticed Talon's defensive stance, and he shifted out of it before she could.

Cassiopeia gave him an anxious look. "Do you know where she is?"

Talon struggled to hide his discomfort. He wasn't sure whether Cassiopeia knew the true nature of Katarina's 'mission', but the thought she had voiced was a disturbing one, to say the least.

Cassiopeia gazed at Talon for several uncomfortable seconds. Then she recoiled and put a hand to her mouth. "Oh no…" she whispered. "No, she didn't… she couldn't have been that foolish…."

Talon narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked, hoping his desperation didn't show.

Cassiopeia shook her head despairingly. "She wanted to kill Swain, didn't she?" she asked, looking dejectedly down at the floor. Talon sighed.

"She didn't leave to kill him, if that's what you mean," he managed to say. He was about to mention that Katarina's itinerary would have taken her nowhere near the grand general, but Cassiopeia spoke first.

"But he knows, doesn't he?" She looked up at him with sad, scared yellow eyes. "He knows she doesn't like him. And now he… he's going to… he'll…" She shook her head again, and suddenly her poise stiffened with frustration. "I told her!" she snarled. "I've told her again and again and again to watch her behaviour at parties! But she didn't listen! She never listens!"

Talon shifted his weight uncomfortably. He wouldn't have put it past Swain to guess the belligerence in Katarina's thoughts. Katarina had never bothered to hide her dislike of him, and it was common sense for any new grand general to eliminate his rivals.

Cassiopeia sighed. "What are we going to do?" she asked, choking slightly at the end. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Talon exhaled heavily as he weighed their options.

"You'll have to go for the dinner," he said at last. "We don't have a choice. If we're lucky, Swain's just checking if we're a threat. You'll have to allay his suspicions."

Cassiopeia nodded slowly. "What if it's a trap?" she asked.

Talon frowned again. "You'll have to go anyway."

Cassiopeia's eyes widened. "What?"

Talon raised a hand to forestall her. "Don't worry. I'll come along and keep an eye on things. If there's a problem, I'll get you out."

Cassiopeia gave him a worried look. "Are you sure you can do that? Swain's sure to have guards, and father always said he's a better fighter than he looks."

Talon gave her a small, sad smile. "I'll just have to figure something out. I assume the dinner's at High Command?"

Cassiopeia shook her head. "It's at the Black Swan." The Black Swan was a restaurant near the High Command compound. "It's at seven," she added.

Talon nodded and checked the clock on the wall. "Well, then you'd better get changed," he said. The location could have been worse, he thought. There was that, at least.

Cassiopeia nodded again. Then, abruptly, she surged forward and threw her arms around him. Talon stiffened. Cassiopeia's half-snake physique was surprisingly strong.

"Thank you," she whispered fervently. "Thank you."

Talon sighed and gingerly put his own arms around her back, grateful that his gauntlets kept a barrier between his fingers and her skin. "It's okay," he whispered back, hoping he was right.

* * *

><p>Cassiopeia checked her reflection again as the carriage rattled over the uneven Noxian cobblestones. It was hard to believe that this street was supposed to be one of Noxus's best. Still, a bumpy ride was the least of her concerns right now.<p>

"How do I look?" she asked, looking up at the man sitting across from her. As she said the words, it occurred to her that as far as she knew the person she was speaking to owned about four sets of clothing.

"You look okay," Talon answered. "Not bad, if that's what you mean."

Cassiopeia nodded her thanks. She hoped he was right. But, looking down at the hand mirror again, she was pleased to note that she didn't look quite as hideous as she had previously feared. It was nowhere near her former beauty, of course, but she supposed that Swain hadn't exactly invited her along for her pretty face.

In the end, she had decided on a short, strapless dress embroidered with silver, with a wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat. The hat was similarly embroidered and she had laid a string of pearls around the crown to add to the effect. The hat would, she hoped, hide her unsightly head, which now featured a cobra's hood instead of hair. A platinum and onyx neck collar set with a single large diamond and black leather gloves completed her attire, and she had skillfully coated her exposed face, arms and shoulders with moisturisers and powder to hide its dry, almost leathery nature.

All in all, it could have been worse. She had to admit that she was quite proud of her improvisation—for all the good it would do. If Swain wanted her family dead, she doubted very much that good dressing would deter him.

"Remember," Talon's low voice interrupted her reverie. "You have to befriend him. Win his trust. Assure him we're not a threat to his power. And try to find out what he's planning in the meantime."

Cassiopeia nodded. "I know." She managed a small, nervous smile. "I _have_ done this sort of thing before, you know." Talon nodded back but didn't smile.

It was intriguing, Cassiopeia thought. Was that concern she detected? In another time, she might have tried to tease a confession out of him. In _another_ time.

"I'll see you soon," Talon said, his voice calm and steady. "All the best." He didn't smile.

As arranged, the carriage slowed down. A moment later, the assassin threw open the carriage door and leaped out, rolling smoothly back to his feet on the sidewalk. Cassiopeia hurried to shut the door, looking out the window to see her protector moving quickly into a side alley. Then the carriage sped up and rounded a corner, and the Blade's Shadow disappeared from sight.

Several minutes later, the carriage drew into the grounds of a stately mansion. Cassiopeia took a moment to admire the perfectly manicured gardens and masterfully crafted swan sculptures that adorned the driveway. Ahead, a massive fountain depicting more swans dominated the entrance to the building.

The Serpent's Embrace took a deep breath and checked the mirror one last time as the carriage rattled to a stop before a polished marble terrace. She laid down the mirror, closing her eyes and pushing her worries to the back of her mind as a valet came forward to open the carriage door. _Just relax and everything will come naturally_, she reminded herself. _This is your specialty. You've done this more times than you can count._

She didn't dare to tell herself that this time would be no different. Just another game of snake and mouse.

The carriage door swung open. Cassiopeia opened her eyes to see her chauffer standing next to the valet, helping to lower a ramp of sorts that would make it easier for her to reach the ground. When they were done, the Serpent's Embrace dismounted the carriage and surveyed her surroundings. The mansion's architecture was known to be one of the most unique in Valoran. It had elements of the gothic style with its pointed arch doorways and flying buttresses, yet its sloping roof and tall decorative pillars reflected the Palladian style, while the symmetry, geometry and neat, carefully measured proportions were reminiscent of more modern renaissance architecture. Elegant yet strong. It was an interesting contrast, and not at all unappealing.

Cassiopeia turned as the valet spoke to her. "Lady Cassiopeia, the grand general is awaiting you upstairs. Please follow me." Cassiopeia obliged, slithering up the stairs and across the smooth marble terrace, past lit torches and yet more swan sculptures. Whoever had designed this place must have been obsessed with swans, she thought, although that was rather fitting considering that many of the restaurant's signature dishes featured swan meat.

The interior of the house was just as lavishly decorated as the outside, with an impressive collection of antique furniture and artwork, many of which also had some sort of swan design. Swain was waiting for her in a private room on the second floor, clad in a set of ornate formal robes with flared cuffs and what looked like a golden breastplate. He rose as she entered, coming forward and sweeping a low bow.

"Good evening, milady," he said pleasantly. Cassiopeia offered him her hand, glad that it wasn't shaking, and the grand general took it and tapped her fingers lightly against his lips. Cassiopeia allowed herself a moment of respect for the man. She doubted many would have been able to kiss her claws without hesitation.

Swain moved to pull her chair away for her, giving her an inquiring look as she slithered into place. She shook her head at him to indicate that she wouldn't need it, smiling at his manners. And as he returned to his seat, she reflected that he had pretty good dress sense as well. From earlier meetings, she knew that he possessed a less-than-impressive physique. The robes and breastplate made the most of his short, stocky figure, while the wide sleeves hid the thinness of his arms. It wasn't exactly the height of fashion, but she had a feeling it suited him better. He managed to look neat and imposing without seeming hostile.

He'd switched to the mask he normally used when eating, a black leather one that hugged his face tightly and left holes for his lips and nostrils. It looked no different from the one he'd used the first time she'd met him.

The two Noxians studied each other for several moments, each sizing the other up and formulating what to say. Swain spoke first.

"I took the time to order dinner before you arrived, milady. I hope you don't mind."

Cassiopeia shook her head. "Not at all," she replied. "I trust you have good taste."

Swain smiled back. "I hope I do," he said affably.

Two waiters entered the room. One poured white wine into their glasses while the other served them appetisers—swan and venison Carpaccio with white truffle shavings, alongside hop shoots sautéed with chives and butter. Cassiopeia tried not to look impressed. The food was very good.

"So," Swain said at last, "I hope you had a pleasant ride here."

Cassiopeia glanced up from her meal. "Yes I did, thank you," she responded politely.

Swain raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he asked, smiling wryly. "Those roads are pretty terrible."

Cassiopeia simpered. "I suppose I'm not as discerning as you."

"Hopefully the roads will be fixed soon," Swain continued seriously. "The next time my carriage hits a pothole, I might consider having someone executed."

Cassiopeia shifted uncomfortably. "I'm joking," Swain added.

Cassiopeia managed smile. "Good to see that someone takes the quality of our roads so seriously," she remarked.

Swain smiled.

Cassiopeia finished the first course and leaned back, watching curiously as the waiters served Ganseklein soup. She hadn't had that in a long time. She took a sip of the soup and considered whether or not to stall, then decided to just get things over and done with.

"So, grand general, what did you ask me here for?"

Swain stopped eating and gave her a long, calculated look. "What do you think?"

Cassiopeia forced down her anxiety. "I suppose it gets boring up there in the tower all the time," she replied casually. "And lonely too…" she let her voice trail off, jerking her chin at him for a response.

Swain chuckled again. "You know," he said, "that's not entirely untrue." His voice was light, but she could just detect a faint hint of wistfulness there. Swain looked silently into his glass for just a moment. When he lifted his head, the casual smile was there again.

"Loneliness I can handle. It's isolation that's the problem." He swirled his glass, looking at the shimmering liquid again. "What's that saying? Keep friends close…" he let the words hang.

Cassiopeia smiled and laid her hands on the table as she leaned towards him. "Are we friends, general?"

Swain sipped, eyeing her over the top of his glass. "Are we?"

Cassiopeia's features shifted into a practised mock pout. "Don't be coy."

Swain raised an eyebrow again. "My thoughts exactly. Why are _you_ here, milady?"

Cassiopeia shrugged. "What can I say? I do like getting up close and personal. And I always enjoy rubbing shoulders with legends." Swain raised his other eyebrow.

"I didn't know I was _legendary_," he said mildly. "You know, most people don't really jump at the chance to meet me personally."

Cassiopeia slipped her spoon into her mouth and swallowed delicately. "I don't suppose you think I'm like 'most people'".

Swain's lips curled upwards. "No. Not everyone leaves as lasting an impression as you." He tilted his glass at her and narrowed his eyes as if he was studying her. "Hmm… I think it's the flexibility."

_What's that supposed to mean? _The air seemed to freeze as Cassiopeia frowned. "Careful now," she warned, a hint of ice creeping into her voice, "I bite." Immediately, she berated herself. What a stupid thing to say! She shouldn't have risen so easily to the bait!

"I don't taste like chicken," Swain informed her, his face totally deadpan. "Or swan." Abruptly, he held up a hand as if in apology. "I'm sorry, I was referring to your intelligence. That's the word I was looking for."

Hiding her relief, Cassiopeia gave him a conciliatory smile. "To the clever go the spoils," she offered.

Swain nodded and smiled back. He paused, presumably considering what to say next. Cassiopeia opted to strike first. "So, how many moves are you ahead of me, general?" she asked.

Swain chuckled and took a moment to answer. "Let's just say my destination isn't absolute yet. I'm dawdling more than a Noxian should."

"Or perhaps," Cassiopeia mused, "you're not dawdling. Perhaps you're waiting, waiting, because power requires precision, and the ultimate enemy of expedience is haste." She leaned forward. "You're waiting, because poison takes so many forms, and you're wondering if you like what you see." Again, the mood in the room shifted. Cassiopeia found herself whispering without realising it.

The Master Tactician's blood red eyes regarded her calmly. "Impeccable," he said quietly, almost to himself. "You really are as good as they said." There was another pause. Swain seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Cassiopeia weighed her words carefully, sensing that her next words could be crucial.

"So, general," she said finally. "Do you like what you see?"

Swain was silent for a long time. "Yes," he responded at last. His red eyes locked with her yellow ones. "You know, your father was a very good friend of mine. I don't think I'd be where I am today without him. I'd like to think that my friendship with him extends to his family as well."

Ah, so there it was. Of course. Strange how she hadn't thought of that earlier. Cassiopeia leaned back and took a sip of her own drink, casting a glance out the window for show. She sipped again, letting the silence drag on for a few seconds. Then she turned back to him.

"Our interests are aligned, general. Let us pursue them together."

Swain nodded and tipped his glass to her. "My pleasure," he replied. What looked like a smirk spread over what she could see of his face. "I suppose this means you can call off your household assassin now."

* * *

><p>The lone woman wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders as a gust of cold wind knocked leaves from the Ionian trees. She glanced around nervously again. Where was it, that dark, shadowy figure that had disturbed her camp? Had she lost it? Instinctively, she reached for the hilt of the sword that was slung over her back, seeking the comfort of the cold steel. Sighing, she pulled up the hood of her cloak to hide her silvery white hair, which gleamed too conspicuously in the moonlight. With that done, she decided to continue walking, at least until she could find a safe place to rest for the night.<p>

An immense feeling of depression crept over her as she plodded through the darkness. She was sick of living like this, sick of wandering alone through this foreign land, sick of sleeping under these cold trees and unforgiving stars, sick of the constant running, of stealing food and clothes because she couldn't buy them, of hiding in the woods, of the constant fear that someone was coming to get her. She wanted to go home. But she couldn't. She was an exile now. That, perhaps, was the worst part—that and the emptiness. Comfort she could forego. Loneliness she could tolerate. But to live like this—without purpose, without meaning, without a place or people to belong to, _that _was hell on earth.

The kingfisher's cry jerked her from her thoughts. The exile didn't think. She didn't look around. She just ran. Twigs snapped beneath her feet. Roots reached up to trip her. The wind filled her cowl and lifted it off her head as if out of sheer spite. Leaves and branches slapped against her face until tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. Angrily, she dashed a sleeve across her face to clear her vision.

She could hear the sounds of pursuit. They were getting closer. Without really meaning to, she risked a glance over her shoulder.

There it was! That same shadow, flitting through the trees, darting from branch to branch like some sort of sinister monkey. Except that this part of Ionia didn't have monkeys.

The woman leaped over another tree root and kept running until her foot hit empty air. Suddenly, she was falling, dirt and leaves and twigs swirling around her as she tumbled and slid and rolled down the embankment she hadn't seen in the dark.

Fighting the urge to curse, the exile rolled to her feet and drew her sword. There was no point running anymore, she knew. The fall had taken too much time. With surprising calm for one who had shortly before been so flustered, she assumed a defensive stance and carefully, methodically surveyed her surroundings.

"Wow," a voice said behind her. "That was a merry chase. But if you run, you won't get to see me stab you."

The woman turned slowly to face the voice. "Katarina," she said.

The scion of the Du Couteau household smiled as she dropped lightly off the branch she'd been perched on. "Hello, Riven," she said. "How are you enjoying Ionia?"

Riven glared at the assassin and kept her sword up. "What do you want?"

Katarina shrugged. "I'm here to help you."

"Rubbish."

The rudeness only made the Sinister Blade laugh. "I'm serious. You think there's something wrong with Noxus? I think there's something wrong too. You know what it is? I think it's got something to do with a strange, ugly old man who's the exact opposite of everything Noxus stands for."

Riven frowned. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Katarina stopped pacing and locked eyes with the exile. "Jericho Swain has seized power."

Riven froze. Jericho Swain? Wasn't that the cripple who always seemed to be winning awards?

"How…"

Katarina cut her off. "Exactly. And it gets worse. He just made a trip to Zaun. To meet with Singed."

Riven clenched her fists tighter around her sword at the mention of the Mad Chemist. "He's making a deal with him?"

Katarina nodded seriously. "And whole lot more of other Zaunites too." She paused to let the words sink in. "The question is, _Exile_, what are you going to do about it?"

Riven eyed Katarina coldly. "You want me to kill him." Katarina nodded. Riven shook her head. "I know what you're up to. You want me to eliminate him so you can seize power for yourself. That's all you do in High Command these days."

Tut-tutting, Katarina turned away. "You know that's not true," she replied. "I'm not even a member of High Command. I wouldn't even be on the list in the next election. But High Command's changed a bit since you left. It's gotten a lot smaller. A lot narrower. If we kill Swain, I'm sure we can get someone you like on the throne. Rokossovsky, perhaps. Or Rommel. I'm sure they won't let you down."

Riven was silent. Katarina resumed her pacing. "Swain's visiting Zaun again in a few weeks, presumably to finalise his deals and check on his projects. He'll be travelling alone."

Riven still didn't speak. Katarina turned to face her, and there was some heat in her voice when she spoke again. "Come on! I thought you were fighting for a better Noxus! A truer Noxus! You don't have to like me. You don't even have to trust me. But are you really going to stand by as this weasel destroys everything you stand for? What about your unit? If Swain gets his way, what happened to them will be repeated a thousand times over."

Riven lowered her sword as the implications sank in. Images flashed through her mind. Men and women screaming as their bodies dissolved. Her second in command, begging for death as he lay in the puddle that had once been his lower body. An old veteran doubled over on his knees, groaning as he literally puked his guts out.

She didn't notice how close Katarina was until the Blade's Shadow whispered in her ear. "Only fools hesitate."

With a snarl, Riven swung the sword. "I am not a fool!"

Katarina barely darted to safety in time. She eyed Riven calmly, folded her arms, and said nothing.

Riven met Katarina's gaze angrily for several seconds. Then she sighed and lowered her sword again. "I'll do it," she said. "A necessary strike. Violence to end violence."

Katarina nodded. "Good. Violence solves everything."


End file.
